He rushed me down the stairs with his hand gripping the sleeve of my jumper up by my shoulder, holding his phone ahead of us, the screen angled our way. The information on-screen included the number he’d called but no name.
I listened hard, hoping I might catch a scrap of what was being said, hear Sam, think of some way to warn him.
But there was nothing.
Just silence and the faint crackle of the speaker and the sticky thudding of my heart in my chest.
Until I heard the chant again. Louder this time, more composed.
‘I’m here for you. You’re here for me.’
I almost wished it was anything else.
Then we reached the bottom of the stairs. The front door was ahead of us, the hallway mirror to my right.
I wanted to sprint for the door, haul it open, burst through, flee.
But one glance in the mirror – at the shock and horror on my face, and the determination and intensity on Donovan’s – made me push that instinct deep down inside me.
I believed him about the danger Sam was in.
I believed his threat about John.
I’d seen what he’d done to Bethany.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You’re going to open the door and get rid of him. Keep it simple. Make it fast. Because I promise you this: if he comes inside, what happens next is on you.’
He measured me, watching the impact of his words land, then he urged me forwards and took several paces to my left, adopting a position just inside the threshold of the living room but out of sight of the bay window, where he wouldn’t be seen from outside, raising his phone towards his mouth.
‘Opening the door now,’ he said to the unknown person who was watching Sam.
I glanced at the mirror again, tugging down the sleeve of my jumper so that both sleeves matched. I straightened my hair and shoulders, wincing a little as my hair snagged on the cut to the back of my head.
I still looked a mess. No use pretending otherwise.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.
‘Think of something. Improvise. Act normal.’
How, I wanted to ask him?
Because nothing about this situation was normal. Not one thing about what was happening to me was normal in any way.
I’d been this scared before. Once. But the episode in the bathroom, jumbled and fragmented as it was in my mind, had been over in seconds. It had been horrifying, disabling, inexplicable. And yes, its impact had lingered and haunted me, but it hadn’t been like this. There hadn’t been the sustained fear, the open threats. Nobody else had been at risk.
And it hadn’t happened inside my own home.
I think that’s what was scaring me more than anything else. I’d invited this danger in.
And now he’s making you keep it inside with you.
Movement outside.
John had shifted to his left, as if he was trying to peer in through the frosted glass panel at the side of the front door, backlit yellow by the street lighting.
‘Open the damn door,’ Donovan told me.
I took three steps, reached out a hand that seemed to belong to someone else and touched the lever on the snap lock.
To my side, Donovan retreated a step further, thrusting his phone out towards me in his gloved hand, the call counting relentlessly onwards.
Part of me almost wished John would simply go away. I was scared of him getting hurt. Afraid he might make things worse.
But more than that, I dreaded being so near to a way out and denying it to myself. I wasn’t sure I could be that brave.
I levered down the snap lock and parted the door from the seal.
A slight sucking noise.
The wisp of a breeze.
Then I swung the door fully open.
Opened my mouth.
And didn’t say a word.